


A Brief History of Benji Campbell and Birthdays

by ThatOneGaySlytherin



Series: Good Things Fall Apart [2]
Category: Love Victor (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, Birthday, Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Mia isnt really in this shes just mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27593011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneGaySlytherin/pseuds/ThatOneGaySlytherin
Summary: A birthday is just like any other day, but worse. At least, that's what Benji thinks until Victor.
Relationships: Benjamin "Benji" Campbell/Derek (Love Victor), Benjamin "Benji" Campbell/Victor Salazar
Series: Good Things Fall Apart [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2016943
Comments: 28
Kudos: 89





	A Brief History of Benji Campbell and Birthdays

**Author's Note:**

> AHHH IT'S BB BENJI'S BIRTHDAY. I love this character so much, despite the fact that we know almost nothing about him, so as a birthday present to this wonderful boy I have given him some backstory <3
> 
> (This follows the events of Good Things Fall Apart, but it doesn't contain any spoilers and also stands on its own, you don't have to have read GTFA to read this!!)

**Six**

Benji doesn’t understand birthdays. The kids in his class are always so excited about them, but all of his birthdays have been mundane, normal days. Of course, he doesn’t remember the first couple, but why would anything have changed?

His mother insists on throwing him a birthday party this year. Now that he’s been in school for a year, she thinks it’s important that he start making friends.

Benji doesn’t have the same set of concerns. He’s reserved, sensitive, and even at six years old, he feels that the other kids don’t understand him. And they don’t want to. Benji would much prefer to spend recess with his teacher, Miss Caroline, a bright-eyed twenty-something who has already seen her fair share of Benjis, who knows how cruel children can be, how the world can beat the special ones into the ground.

Still, the day comes and there’s a duet of folding tables stretched out in the Campbells’ tiny backyard. It’s a warm day for November, luckily; Mrs. Campbell wants Benji to have friends, but not at the cost of letting the other parents see inside their home. “Make sure to come right around back,” she was careful to indicate on the invitations.

While she pours a box of cake mix into a bowl, Benji is curled up on the couch, already fighting tears. The previous week, he’d almost worked himself into a tantrum when his mother had gone to send the invitations. But Miss Caroline says that Benji is mature for his age, and he knows that to act so childish would be to let her down. So he’d thrown himself into bed and cried silently while his mother was at the post office.

Now, all he can think is that nobody will come, and, even worse, all of the kids at school will _know_ that nobody came.

When the time comes, Benji is seated outside, his father trying to get charcoal lit in their beat-up grill. Ten minutes pass. Twenty. His mother is nowhere to be found, probably somewhere inside the house. Maybe crying. She’s been doing a lot of crying lately. Benji always tries to pretend he doesn’t hear it.

To his surprise, two of his classmates do show up: Sofie and Maxwell. He gets along well with Sofie—the other kids (especially the boys) make fun of her for the color of her skin, her nose, the birthmark under her right eye. But Benji thinks Sofie is super nice, and she always knows the answers in class. Benji wishes he could be like that.

On the other hand, Benji, even at six years old, is certain that Maxwell is only there because his parents have forced him to come. He can tell by the way he fidgets in his seat, keeps looking up at his father.

The grownups gather at the grill and Benji’s dad does his best to cook and entertain at the same time. Benji hears something about a “migraine.” Isn’t that what birds do in the winter? They migraine south? As his father sets a hamburger on a paper plate in front of him, Benji starts to wonder if his mother has left.

It’s a quiet day. Sofie is like Benji; she doesn’t like to talk much, but when she does, Benji always listens attentively, hoping she might slip and reveal how she knows all of the answers.

He never figures it out.

About an hour later, Benji relaxes when his mother emerges from the house, cake in hand, six lit candles sparkling on top. There’s a weak chorus of “Happy Birthday,” and Benji’s mom crouches down beside him, hands on his shoulder.

“Make a wish,” she says, the fire from the candles glistening in her misty hazel eyes.

 _I wish that next year I’ll know what to wish for_ , he thinks. He leans forward and blows out the candles, all in one breath—his dad always said that your wish only comes true if you get them all in one breath.

The cake is undercooked, but the icing is delicious. Yellow cake with store-bought chocolate frosting, one of Benji’s absolute favorites.

After cake, he opens presents. From Sofie, a book filled with pictures and facts about aquatic animals. From Maxwell, a kit with plastic beakers and test tubes. Truthfully, he’s excited about both of these gifts. His mom forces him to hug Sofie and Maxwell to thank them.

They don’t stay for much longer; Maxwell’s dad says that they have a family dinner that they can’t get out of, and once they’re gone, Sofie’s mom decides to take her home as well.

Benji’s dad ruffles his hair as he goes about cleaning the grill, bringing leftovers inside. His mother sits at the table across from him, a glass of something amber-colored in her hand. Lost to the world, Benji flips through his book. He bets Sofie already knows all of the facts in here. She probably knows everything about the whole ocean.

Mostly, Benji is just happy anybody showed at all.

Later that night, Benji’s mom cries. She cries hard, and for a long time.

Benji wants to cry, too. But he doesn’t quite know what to cry over. So he doesn’t cry at all.

* * *

**Thirteen**

Benji enters his teen years the same way he assumes he’s going to leave them: by himself.

A mandatory business trip out of town, his dad explains after dinner the night before his birthday. He and Benji’s mom both work as sales representatives for the same company, which means career-related travel is fairly frequent.

“You’re old enough now to be at home alone for a couple of nights, right?” his mom asks, her eyes tired, so tired. “You’re a teenager now, after all.”

Benji’s been alone overnight several times before this, times when a babysitter fell through, or was just forgotten about altogether. He knows how to take care of himself. He can make grilled cheese and spaghetti and a handful of other easy dishes, and there’s always something microwavable in the freezer.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she says and runs a hand over his hair. “We did get you something, though.” She nods to Benji’s dad, who leaves the room and returns with a large box.

Benji wonders at it. He’s never received such a large present in his life. “Can I open it now?” he asks.

When he gets the go ahead, Benji carefully undoes the wrapping paper (because that’s the rule, never waste) and gasps at the box’s contents.

A guitar.

He’s been asking for a guitar since he was nine, and he always just assumed that that wish was not meant to be.

“Do you like it?” his dad asks.

Benji lifts the instrument reverently; it’s not a full-size guitar, but it’s tan and it’s shiny and it’s perfect. “Yeah,” he says, eyes combing the frets.

“So, you have to understand,” his mother says, sitting on the couch and leaning forward onto her knees. “This was all we could get you for your birthday this year. It’s a big present.”

Benji nods, still transfixed by the instrument in his hands.

“We’re also going to have a bit of a…light Christmas,” she continues, her voice tense.

He looks up at her, carefully lays the guitar in the box, then crosses the room and throws his arms around her shoulders. “Thank you,” he whispers. Part of him knows, even at thirteen, that everything his parents do is for him, even when it feels like it’s quite the opposite.

Then he does the same with his dad, wrapping his arms around his waist. Benji’s dad doesn’t hug him often, but he does now.

“You’re gonna have to put the strings on yourself,” his dad explains when Benji pulls away. “There’s a guide included, but it can be tricky. Might be best to wait until I get back to figure it out.”

Benji nods, knowing full well that if he waits, he might just go crazy.

And then his parents are gone. A late flight, his mom explains, weary.

Too tired to start working on his guitar, Benji goes to bed. The house is quiet.

The next day—his thirteenth birthday—he makes himself frozen waffles for breakfast and uses as much syrup as he wants. He even eats it on the couch in front of the TV; his mom has a rule against that. But she’s not here. And Benji is careful, so careful, always careful in this house.

Then, Benji starts work on his guitar. It takes a couple of hours to really figure everything out, and by the end his fingers are singing in pain, the pointer on his right hand bandaged after he somehow sliced it open.

But he has a completed instrument in his hands. He gives it a strum and laughs at how out of tune it is, then starts to turn the tuning keys, plucking each string over and over until it sounds right. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he _knows_.

For the rest of the day, Benji picks and strums away, rearranging his fingers over and over to make different chords. He doesn’t know what they’re called, what notes he’s playing, but every so often he’ll do something that sounds right—sounds _good_ —and he commits the positioning of his fingers to memory.

Before he knows it, the sky is dark and his eyes are drooping. He hadn’t eaten lunch _or_ dinner, too engrossed in musical discovery to worry about something as silly as eating. He brushes his teeth and goes to bed, his stomach growling.

It’s not the first time he’s gone to bed hungry.

Benji only wishes his parents were here so he could share his excitement with someone. He holds tight to his mother’s final words to him before she walked out the door the previous night.

“This is the last time, Benji. I promise.”

But she’d said that the last time, too. And the time before.

This is the third birthday his parents have missed in five years.

* * *

**Sixteen**

Benji doesn’t know where he is. He can hardly see in the darkness, his pulse pounding in his head. This week has been hell. This _year_ has been hell. His grades are slipping, his social life is fake, so fake, everything fake. The smiles, the jokes, the girlfriends. Illusions.

He wants to blame the crowd he’s fallen in with for his problem, but a deep, gnarled part of him knows that the only person to blame is himself, his own fucked up biology. It’s every one of his mom’s empty wine bottle hidden under napkins in the trash can, it’s the mornings when Benji is so sure she would never stop puking, the days she drowns herself in darkness, door closed.

And part of him thinks that he always knew he would be exactly the same way. That first sip of beer was a death sentence, one he signed happily, hastily, without even pausing to think.

His parents have no idea where he is tonight, which puts them on the same playing field. Benji doesn’t know where he is either.

The night had started at some party, some sweaty, noisy dungeon of teenagers, people just like him. Except nobody is like him, are they? They couldn’t be, because Benji isn’t even sure how he’s still alive, not even sure how a person can house this constant, writhing panic in their chest without tearing into their own flesh, cracking their ribs, pulling their lungs apart, doing anything to be rid of it.

Benji drinks instead. The booze numbs the panic, the sadness, the everything. It makes everything go away. The thoughts, the desires, the self-hatred. Three, four drinks and it all starts to fade, blend into a gray slush that he can vomit up, flush away.

He sits up, his whole body feeling foreign. He’s in someone’s bed. She’s beside him, naked, asleep. He’s naked too, he realizes, and then the moment comes back in pops of memory, like flashes of lightning.

Benji’s stomach turns and he pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t stop thinking: _I don’t know where I am_.

He fumbles around in the darkness, looking for articles of clothing, for his phone, for something to ground him physically as his throat tightens and his head spins. He stumbles out of bed and manages to locate his clothes, almost falling as he puts them on.

On the floor, a rectangle of light. Benji stoops to pick it up. His phone. Good. This is good. He has his phone.

Benji looks at the bed, at the girl whose name is an absolute mystery to him, dead to the world, a soft slice of moonlight draped across her body.

He looks at her and he feels nothing.

Another wave of nausea hits him but he has nowhere to throw up, so he brute forces it down and presses his back against the nearest wall, sliding down until his knees are at his chest.

He checks his phone, the light piercing his eyes.

November 16th. 4:27 AM.

Right. His birthday. Another year of being alive.

Benji leans forward, then throws his head back, slamming it against the wall. The thud echoes through the room. The girl doesn’t stir.

_I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where I am._

_I don’t know who I am._

* * *

**Seventeen**

“Happy birthday, babe,” Derek says as Benji enters his dorm room. He kisses Benji, long and slow, teeth and tongues.

Benji pulls away and smiles at his boyfriend. “Thanks,” he says.

“I got you this,” Derek says and hands Benji an envelope, plain white, his named scribbled lazily across the front.

Looking down at it, Benji’s heart flips. In all the months they’ve been together, Derek has never given Benji a gift, never gone out of his way to give Benji something small, no ‘this reminded me of you,’ no ‘I thought you might like this,’ no ‘I know you’ve been feeling down, so here’s something to cheer you up.’

It’s taken Benji his birthday to realize that.

“Go on, open it,” Derek says as he tosses himself onto his bed, the shitty mattress creaking beneath him.

Benji nods and digs his fingers beneath the flap, the digits shaking. His mind races, wondering what might be inside—something to make up for all of the opportunities Derek missed out on? Concert tickets, maybe?

The card is simple: blue with a picture of a cake on the front, “Happy Birthday” in a looping script.

With a deep breath, Benji opens the card.

Inside there are two twenty-dollar bills and a note that says, “Happy birthday, babe! Love you <3”

Benji looks up, up at Derek, who’s on his phone, not even paying attention. He clears his throat. “Uh, thanks, Derek,” he says.

Derek looks up. “Hm? Oh, yeah, you’re welcome. I didn’t really know what to get you, so I figured some cash would let you get whatever you want, right?”

 _It’s sweet_ , Benji lies to himself, _he wanted to give me choices, options._

“Yeah, perfect,” Benji says.

Derek sits up and sets his phone aside. “So, I know you hate them, but there’s this party tonight that I really need to go to.”

Benji’s arms fall to his sides, the bills slipping out of the card and fluttering to the floor. “You’re serious?”

“I mean, yeah,” Derek says with a huff. “I do have a life outside of you, you know.”

“It’s my birthday,” Benji says, his voice small. “And I came all the way out here because I thought we were gonna spend a night together—”

“We still can!” Derek rolls his eyes. “Just come to the party, babe. You’ll be fine.”

Benji crumples the envelope in his left hand. “I’d rather not,” he says, jaw locked, eyes stinging.

“Fine,” Derek says with a shrug. “I’ll try not to stay out too late. Brandon is gone for the weekend, so you can chill here until I get back, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Benji says through his teeth. “Yeah, that’ll be fine.”

Derek jumps up from his bed with a smile, then kisses Benji on the cheek. “Also, it’s your birthday, and you know what _that_ means.”

It means Derek is going to show up at three in the morning, crash through the door, his breath reeking of alcohol, and insist that they have birthday sex. For Benji. Always for Benji, everything is for Benji. Derek is good at framing things that way.

“Can’t wait,” Benji says, fighting the urge to pull away when Derek kisses him again.

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” Derek says, slipping out the door before Benji can even respond.

He slumps down onto the edge of Derek’s bed, back hunched, breathing uneven. He takes a few steadying breaths, trying to follow his therapist’s advice.

His phone buzzes.

A text from Lucy, his only real friend, his lifeline.

It’s a simple message with an image attached. “Happy birthday dork. Love you!”

Benji opens the picture and his breath catches in his throat. It’s him, a portrait rendered in watercolor, situated on Lucy’s wall among her other artwork. Lucy has a wall in her room dedicated to the people and things she says she “can’t breathe without,” all of them painted or drawn on random scraps, receipts, jagged pieces of sketchbook paper.

He stares at the image, eyes spilling over with tears. His hands shake. He has no idea how to respond.

The door opens and Derek enters, whistling to himself.

“Whoah, Benji. What’s going on?”

Benji closes his phone and wipes his eyes. “Uh, it’s nothing,” he says. He can already imagine the conversation. He’ll show Derek the image, he’ll criticize the art, and then criticize Lucy (because Derek always finds something to criticize about Lucy). What kind of present is that? She painted you and hung you on _her_ wall?

So Benji forces a smile, because Derek can’t understand. Won’t. “I’m just weird about birthdays, I think.”

“Ah, yeah,” Derek says, disinterested. He bends down and picks the money off the floor, then hands it to Benji. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” he says with a wink.

“Haha.” Benji folds the bills and tucks them into his wallet. “Thanks.”

Derek smiles, proud of himself. “No problem. You hungry? We should go get something to eat. I feel like eating always helps when I’m sad.”

And then Benji kicks himself for thinking all of these horrible things about Derek, his boyfriend, the person he loves. “Yeah,” he says and stands.

Derek takes his hand, kisses him on the cheek, and they leave the room together.

As they walk around campus, Benji can’t help but feel he’s holding the hand of someone who knows even less about him than he does himself. Holding the hand of a person who’s already gone.

* * *

**Eighteen**

Benji’s body is on red alert as he climbs the stairs to Victor’s apartment. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Victor—in fact, after the summer they’ve had, Benji’s trust in Victor has only cemented itself as a constant, unconditional force.

Mia once told Benji about a specific style of Japanese pottery called Kintsukoroi, which involves the art of taking broken pots and piecing them back together, often with beautiful colors filling the cracks. The point is that the pot, though clearly broken, is whole again, and even more beautiful for it.

He recalls this story as he knocks on the door, shaking out his hands and wiping them down on his jeans.

No, the problem isn’t that he doesn’t trust Victor. But he’s afraid that Victor’s done something wonderful, spectacular, and he’s afraid how he’s going to react.

Victor opens the door, already smiling. Benji is a bit thrown off: he’s wearing a tan pullover sweatshirt and a pair of black sweatpants. His boyfriend does make some questionable fashion choices, but Benji is certain Victor wouldn’t go _out_ like this.

“Hi,” Victor says, his own nerves apparent in the waver of his voice, even just over that one word.

“Hi,” Benji says. He steps forward, kisses Victor gently, then hugs him tight.

When they separate, Victor is still grinning. “Happy birthday,” he says.

“Thanks, Vic,” Benji says, then allows Victor to take his hand and lead him inside. “Where is everybody?”

“My mom took Adrian and Pilar out for dinner and to see a movie.”

Benji’s eyebrows go up. “And left you here?”

“Well…” Victor says as he sits down, patting the cushion next to him. “I was the one who asked them to go out, actually. So we could have the place to ourselves.”

“Oh,” Benji says. He looks down at what he’s wearing: his nicest pair of jeans and a cardigan layered over a button-down shirt. “So we’re not going anywhere?”

Victor’s eyes go a little wide, a little soft. “Um, no. Is that okay?”

“No, yeah, that’s fine!” Benji says, a wave of relief washing over him. He sits beside Victor.

Victor’s relief is also apparent. “Okay, good. I was…I was thinking a lot about _us_ , and everything that’s happened in the last year. Plus, you’ve told me a little bit about some of your past birthdays, and…I guess I figured we could have a night to ourselves. It sounds to me like…” He pauses, looks like he’s considering his next words carefully. “It sounds like your birthday has never really been about _you_. And I definitely considered taking you somewhere fancy for dinner, or out to do something fun, but…” At this, Victor shifts closer, one hand on Benji’s knee. “I just feel like the whole world knows too much about us. And they don’t deserve that. _You_ don’t deserve that. You deserve to have private moments that are just yours. Our love is none of their business.” Victor chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, did _any_ of that make any sense?”

“Yeah,” Benji says, smiling, a tear sneaking out of his left eye. “Yeah, that makes perfect sense. Thanks, Victor, this is…” He looks into his boyfriend’s eyes, warm brown, eyes he’s seen ecstatic, angry, on the edge of the worst of the worst. “This is perfect. You’re perfect.”

Victor leans forward kisses Benji, his teeth nicking Benji’s boom lip as he pulls away. He lingers close, their lips nearly touching still, both of them smiling, shining.

“I have some comfier clothes you can change into,” Victor murmurs and licks his lips. “They’re laid out on my bed.”

Benji’s heart does a double take behind his ribs. “Oh. Yeah, great,” he says, mouth dry. “I’ll be right back.”

“And I’ll be right here,” Victor says as Benji rises from the couch.

He walks to Victor’s room, nerves back, suspicious of this ploy. He opens the door and turns on the light.

On the bed, folded neatly, is a black sweatshirt printed with neon colors, a large image of a humanoid moth and text that reads: “HAVE YOU SEEN…THE MOTHMAN, TERROR FROM THE SKIES.”

Benji closes the door and falls to the ground, laughter and nerves and everything all bubbling up and out of his mouth. After a moment he collects himself and rises, his face wet with gleeful tears as he strips down and pulls the sweatshirt over his head. There’s also a pair of Victor’s favorite sweatpants, which he’s only worn once; the legs are too long for him, but he likes the way they cover his feet, keeps them warm.

He gathers his own clothes into a neat pile, then falters when he realizes there’s a piece of paper in the pocket of the sweatpants. He procures it, a piece of notebook paper folded up.

Benji stares at it for a moment, then unfolds it, breath held.

> _Benji,_
> 
> _I know it isn’t much, but it was difficult to think of some kind of material possession that was special enough for you. I went with something that means something, something that nobody else will understand the way we do. Especially now that you’re technically an adult (wow that’s so scary, enjoy doing taxes!), I wanted to do something that will last. And the truth is, I think the time we spend together is the best gift you’ve given me, so all I want to do tonight is return the favor. Now please come back into the other room so I can snuggle the fuck out of you._
> 
> _Love, Victor_

“God dammit,” Benji breathes as another tear drips from the tip of his nose and lands on the note. He presses it to his new sweatshirt, soaking the tear out of the present and back into a memory.

Benji takes a moment to compose himself, raising his sleeves to his eyes to dry them. He reads the note again. And again. And Victor is in the other room, waiting, so he only reads it once more before carefully folding it again and tucking it into his pocket.

Victor is cross-legged on the couch, hands in his lap, eyes already on Benji as he exits the room. Victor smiles and Benji can’t help but smile back, happiness yanking at the corners of his mouth.

Without saying anything, he climbs onto the couch and into Victor’s arms. Victor kisses the crown of his head and strokes Benji’s hair, the silence settling around them like specks of dust, like specks of stars.

“You’re so special, Benji,” Victor eventually says. “And you deserve to be reminded of that every day. Today especially, but every day.”

Benji presses himself closer to Victor, as close as he can, his head on Victor’s chest. “I love you so much,” he says.

“I know,” Victor says. Benji can’t see his face in this position, but he can _hear_ Victor’s smile. “You love me almost as much as I love you.”

And Benji thinks this is impossible, thinks that nobody could love anything more than he loves Victor, thinks he might be changing his mind about birthdays.

**Author's Note:**

> WELL I'M EMO IDK ABOUT Y'ALL. THESE BOYS ARE SO SWEET AND BENJI DESERVES THE WORLD!!!
> 
> Please leave kudos or a comment if you're up for it, I'm very excited to hear thoughts on this one :,)
> 
> Side note: the [Mothman sweatshirt](https://www.wickedclothes.com/products/mothman-sweatshirt) is real and I want one so bad. And yes I simply had to slide in another Mothman reference I'm not sorry!!! <3


End file.
